


Tomorrow

by krazykitkat



Category: West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-02
Updated: 2011-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-24 06:14:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krazykitkat/pseuds/krazykitkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not enough, but it has to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> TITLE: Tomorrow  
> AUTHOR: Kat/krazykitkat  
> RATING: M-Rish (sexual references)  
> PAIRING: Open to interpretation.  
> DISCLAIMER: The West Wing and its characters are the property of Aaron Sorkin, Warner Brothers, and NBC. No Copyright Infringement is intended. I will put them back slightly disheveled. "Will You Love Me Tomorrow?" belongs to Carole King.  
> THANKS: To my wonderful editor and friend, Kat. Thank you for your support and encouragement as always. And damn you for already wondering ;)  
> Written 2001.

_Tonight you're mine completely  
You give your love so sweetly  
Tonight the light of love is in your eyes  
But will you love me tomorrow?_

 

She's standing in my office doorway. With that look. I know what I'll be doing tonight.

Someone has once again shattered her world. She won't tell me who or why or what. We don't talk about such inconsequential matters. The means are immaterial, I just sweep up the pieces.

I've seen that look too many times over the course of this administration. When she's left out of the loop, blind sided by a leak or reporter's source, forced to clean up the disaster area left in Hurricane Josh's wake. And it's now her constant companion, haunting her features. She tries to hide it, but I've always paid close attention to her. It's there in the slight slump of the shoulders, her hand rubbing her neck, the chewing of her lip. Most of all it's in her eyes.

And those eyes are now asking me the question she already knows the answer to.

 

 _Is this a lasting treasure  
Or just a moment's pleasure?  
Can I believe the magic of your sighs?  
Will you still love me tomorrow?_

 

We barely make it into my apartment before hands start grabbing and undoing. She shoves me back into the door, slamming it shut. There's an unspoken rule, no touching until we're inside. But then all bets and clothes are off.

Her blouse is on the floor, on top of my jacket. In her haste one of my buttons pops off, a slight tinkle as it lands and rolls in the direction of the kitchen. The shirt attempts to capture it in a flying lunge. Our tongues duel as we unzip each other and step out of our pants. Bra, undershirt, panties, boxers quickly follow.

I'm really getting too old for this. Beds were invented for a reason. But we follow our tradition, hard and fast, still standing. I turn us one eighty, pressing her into the wood. One advantage of her height, she is able to obtain great leverage. No time for gentle touches or lingering kisses, foreplay isn't required.

She grasps my shoulders as I drive home, our moans synchronized with the movement and each other. My beard rubs against her shoulder; she's going to end up with a burn if the return period between these meetings keeps on decreasing. We slam together in a final burst of energy, before sliding down the door until my knees hit the floor. We're still joined, our heads resting exhausted on each other's shoulder. Our sweat intermingles, as she begins to shudder and her first tear runs down my back. I gently rock her. She won't let me see the silent tears, or brush them away from her cheeks. She will only allow me to feel them flowing across my skin. It's not enough, but it has to be. We will stay here until the river evaporates and our skin grows cold. Only then will we adjourn to my bedroom. This is our tradition.

 

 _Tonight with words unspoken  
You say that I'm the only one  
But will my heart be broken  
When the night meets the morning sun?_

 

The coupling in my bed is slow, sedate, loving. Here we are allowed the luxury to explore each other, to touch, to stroke, to feel. She arches above me, the streetlight highlighting a small smile on her lips as she lowers herself onto me. Our hands are interlocked, the rhythmic motion begins again, slower, sweeter. She lowers her head and our lips meet. Long, sensuous kisses, full of promises and wishes. We soar together, before she falls into my arms.

I pull the covers up over us as she kisses me, her thanks for gluing her back together. She rolls off and settles facing me, her eyelids fluttering closed as the emotional and physical exhaustion overtakes her. I place a kiss on her forehead and my hand on her cheek. She finds the pressure comforting and my thumb lightly strokes her skin. I'll remain in this position, watching over her, touching her, until she falls asleep. Her face relaxes as the worry bleeds away and her breathing becomes slow and even. She's beautiful. But I can't tell her, because we don't speak.

We both work with words, but when it comes to us, we're dyslexic. There's so much I want to tell her. So much I want to ask her. What are we? I know who I am, what I want us to be. Sometimes, as she calls my name and whispers the words, I think she wants the same. But I'm afraid to question her, afraid that I'll drive her away, to another man whose beard will abrade her skin.

So I don't ask. We speak only with our hands, our lips and tongues, our skin, our bodies joining. It's the only language we trust ourselves with. And in the morning she will be gone. I will wonder if it ever happened, but the clothes on the floor near the door will reassure me. I'll go to work, we'll see each other and act normally, as if we weren't making love just hours before. We will work together and apart, sometimes laugh, sometimes fight. There will be no talk of the night, of bare skin, of touching, of stolen glances. Until once again she appears at my door with that look and asks the question she already knows the answer to. This is who we are. This is what we do.

She's sleeping now, but I can't relax. I don't want to stop looking at her features that are already burnt into my corneas. I don't want to lose contact with her skin. If I maintain the connection, maybe she'll stay. And next time she appears at my door, she'll be whole with a smile on her face. We'll go to her apartment, make it past the front door without tears. We'll make leisurely love in her bed. We'll speak. In the morning we will wake up in each other's arms. It will be our new tradition. And it will be enough.

My eyelids drift closed as my body surrenders to sleep. I silently whisper the question I can't ask. Here in the depth of night I already know the answer. It's not enough, but it will do until tomorrow.

 

 _I'd like to know that your love  
Is love I can be sure of  
So tell me now, and I won't ask again.  
Will you still love me tomorrow?_


End file.
